pain T

After my bro and his missus left on Sunday, I decided to paint the (what is now) a dining table. In the past it used to be my desk, the very one I used to sit over with my face contorted like a melting glove praying that my neighbour would succumb to a unique dose of the Antonine Plague, and it seemed fitting that all association of this foul and bitter creature be permanently struck from history.

IC had popped up to her flat and I’d arranged to join her in 20 minutes for a spot of supper. It’d been a merry afternoon following a late morning of intense cooking due to my lying in. A fisherman’s pie was laid at 2pm for the four of us with all the necessary accoutrements, such as wine, and by the time I was faced with the table and pot of green paint at around 8pm I was a little pissed.

This doesn’t mean to say I was incapable. In fact, when it comes to practical things I’m fairly competent (even when ravaged.) Before IC and I went out for dinner on Friday (a splendid little place near Columbia Road boasting ‘Georgian’ (as in the region not the regency) food which hasn’t a liquor license making it dirt cheap to boot) I’d assembled one of the fucking bookcases so cheerlessly acquired the previous Wednesday from the Swedish Fist. The fact I’d managed to assemble it almost entirely back to front, and upside down, is due to my propensity to refuse instructions and spurn preparation.

On Saturday morning I had to dismantle the fucked-up bookcase and re-assemble it correctly, though I decided to leave out the backboard (couldn’t be fagged to nail it on) which meant that when I filled the shelves with books it leant slumped like a pissed sailor on shore leave. I swore loudly, unburdened the shelves, corrected the mistake and re-added the books. The second bookcase was a lot easier to assemble as I was armed with the knowledge learnt from the failures of the first, though I was cheap with the backboard nails (as I had been with the first) and it was only when I stepped back to admire my handwork I noticed that both backboards were undulating like the North sea and both cases were leaning forwards on the verge of toppling. Furiously I removed all the fucking books again in order to gain access to the back of the cases and attach the fabric loops before drilling two holes in the plaster board in which to screw in the hooks to attached to the loops, and for the third time replaced the books. Then I remembered I’d not corrected the rippling fucking backboards that by now were good for the skate Park in London Fields. Best leave it before I took my hammer to it all.

After dumping a bunch of stuff at the charity shop IC and I grabbed the bus to take the train from London Bridge to Gatwick, not for the purposes of vacation (that’s next week) but to visit some of IC’s friends who have, one would imagine, the misfortune to live there.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. The road they live down is quite lovely, not a shred of noise, so we were able to spend the afternoon in their pretty garden in the warm sunshine. A very congenial way to see off the last official day of summer, especially as we’d wine to sip along the way and stuff to pick at. We set off at dusk and were home by 9-ish, IC and I decided to spurn the world and locked ourselves in the Twatcave for the remainder of the evening, it’s a hazy memory, but I do recall IC not minding black metal…

Armed with the recent disaster regarding all things bookshelf, I paused before slapping paint on my former desk. I carefully cleaned the surface and masked the perimeter with tape before gingerly brushing a revolting green gloss over the past. Satisfied with my efforts I left the fug of solvent in the flat and went upstairs to spend the evening with IC.

I got in last night after a meeting with my bro at a boozer in Monument eager to check my efforts. My black heart sank; the paint had split on the table as it had dried (I should’ve sanded the surface before I applied the paint to key it in but didn’t think it was necessary) so I angrily tore off the masking tape that simultaneously lifted sheets of fresh paint off the table with it. I was speechless with rage.

Actually, it’s a wonder today’s Piqued happened at all as I’m still smashed to pieces from still not having heard a fucking word from either estate agent, solicitor or priest.

Typing ‘Gahhhhhh’ doesn’t do my ravaged head justice.

Today’s clip posted in ‘comments’ below, it’s not safe for work.